


Deep Fried

by lightning and a lightning bug (spoons)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Wincest if you squint, gen if you don't wanna
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-07
Updated: 2012-07-07
Packaged: 2017-11-09 09:24:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/453915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spoons/pseuds/lightning%20and%20a%20lightning%20bug
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for Dean-focused hurt/comfort comment fic-meme. Prompt: demophobia- Dean is nervous in crowds. Awesome, huge Sam being a bulwark for Dean and talking him down from a panic attack.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Deep Fried

Sam is supposed to be the one who freaks at fairs.

The one time Dad suggested they go to one as kids Sammy nearly had a fit, crying and screaming while Dean held onto his tiny flailing fists and calmly reminded Dad that Sam was too lame to like anything fun like roller coasters or fried food on a stick, and there was the way he practically pissed himself in fear if he came within thirty feet of a clown.

And yeah, maybe this is a State Fair, so there are less clowns and more farm animals and corn mazes, but still. Sam is the one who is supposed to be freaking, not striding around like he is at fucking ease, chatting with fair-goers and vendors alike about the ghosts that supposedly haunted these grounds after dark.

It’s not like Dean is freaking either. He just never really liked fairs, especially ones that are less fried corndogs and girls in bikini tops and more homegrown produce and local radio stations. And seriously, a State Fair? What the hell right does a State Fair, where Dean is pretty damn sure he saw a pig-lifting contest, have to be this crowded?

And it is fucking _crowded._ A thousand different noises and smells and people bumping into Dean left and right. He is a man used to being in a car and sleeping in small motel rooms and spending the majority his time with one other person and one other person only, so crowds are just really not his thing. Any one of these people swarming around him could be possessed or evil or just fucking crazy, and Dean is really ready to be done with this.

It is so easy to lose things in a crowd too, like your wallet or your gun or your stupid giant of brother who was standing _right there_ a second ago talking to the woman selling friendship bracelets and now has vanished like the ground opened up and swallowed him.

And seriously, crowds sucks, because where else can a ten-foot Sasquatch with a terrible haircut just disappear? Dean spins on the spot, desperately trying to locate Sam, but more people crash into him and mutter vaguely annoyed things and he fucking _hates_ this. They already did a hunt on a crashing airplane last year and one a month ago in a basement with a shit-ton of rats, so really this one should have clowns or at least people with terrible grammar who mix metaphors and think Walt Whitman was a former president so Sam can be the one freaking out.

It should not have crowds, crowds that are pressing in on Dean with every second, crowds surging with people and sounds and noises and dangers, crowds that aren’t Sam and take away Dean’s ability to move, to run, to breathe—

Someone grabs Dean by the arms and he immediately lashes out, his only thought to _escape_. But then his blows are blocked by competent hands and a deep voice rumbles his name, and he catches the scent, stronger even than the nasal assault of the fair, of old paper and vanilla coffee and stupidly expensive shampoo, and he doesn’t _collapse_ into Sam’s arm because that’d be totally fucking pathetic, but he does step right up close and gets a couple nice handfuls of Sam’s soft plaid shirt that actually once belonged to Dean.

“Where the hell did you go?” he tries to ask, but his voice isn’t being at all cooperative and it just comes out as a couple of short, painful gasps.

Sam answers him, but Dean can’t really focus on his words right now because it’s suddenly occurred to him that’s he’s not exactly breathing anymore. He can feel the weight of the crowd crushing him, suffocating him, and his lungs don’t seem to be able to inflate and his hands are scrabbling in Sam’s shirt because he can’t fight and he can’t run and without those two options Dean isn’t able to do much of anything else.

Sam is still talking, a little quicker now, and his hands go from Dean’s arms to his face and finally to his neck and his back, hauling Dean forward until he’s pressed against Sam’s in something that’s more than a necessity and not quite a hug.

Dean expects this to be just as smothering, expects to fight extra hard against further containment, but he’s wrong. As all five senses gradually lose _State Fair_ and instead fill with _Sam_ — he can blame the taste one on the fact that his head just happens to be level with Sam’s neck and his mouth was open at the beginning of this whole deal on account of the not-really-breathing thing— Dean finds himself relaxing. The awareness of the crowd fades and he’s left with just his brother’s firm chest beneath his cheek and his brother’s (freakish like the Hulk) strong arms around his back.

Sam’s chest rumbles soothingly like Impala on a smooth road, and slowly Dean is able to understand the words that are going along with that. “It’s okay, Dean. I’ve got you. It’s okay. You’re okay.”

It’s ironic, is what it is, Dean wants to say, because those are his lines, the big brother lines, the one who takes his little brother by the hand and helps him cross streets and navigate a new school and not get lost in clothing stores, and who apparently loses his shit at overcrowded State Fairs. He wants to pull away, to scrape together whatever remains of his dignity and just get the hell out of this place, but then he remembers the feel of the crowd surrounding him and he maybe sort of pushes a little closer instead.

“Sam,” he says, and it’s a little muffled, but honestly, it isn’t his fault that his head and Sam’s neck are the same height and fit so perfectly together, like the universe wanted it that way or something. “Please tell me you remember where we parked the car.”

Sam laughs, and the sound if it starting deep in his chest and working it’s way out is the best thing Dean’s heard all day.

“Yeah, Dean. I remember. You wanna get out of here?”

“Fuck yes.” It’s going to be a little awkward walking out of here like this, but no way is Dean letting go until they are passed the worst of the sounds and smells and people, and he’s pretty sure that will take them about into the next state over.

Sam shifts and Dean panics, thinking he is trying to pull away, but Sam only rearranges them so Dean is tucked under his arm against his side. And maybe it’s a little stupid and _super_ girly, but Dean clamps one hand around Sam’s belt and one in the back of his shirt and maybe kinda sorta keeps his face buried in Sam’s neck as they move forward.

And yeah, Dean’s not really looking, and he’s not sure if it’s because Sam is a twelve-foot tall, semi-imposing man, or because he’s got a tall-for-a-non-mutant incredibly imposing (when he’s not having a totally justifiable break down) man clinging to him, or if it’s because of something else entirely, but he swears the crowd parts before the two of them like the friggin Red Sea.

Maybe the next hunt doesn’t have to have clowns, Dean decides when he spots the Impala in the distance. Sam makes no move to let go of him, and Dean follows his lead. 

Maybe just a mime.


End file.
